


Animal of Prey

by wayward_abused



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Anal Sex, Angst, Cum shot, Dean Winchester Has Issues, Father/Son, Fucking, Hurt Dean Winchester, Incest, M/M, One Shot, PWP, Rape, Sex, bottom!Dean, daddycest, hurt!Dean, non-con, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 12:58:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4788110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wayward_abused/pseuds/wayward_abused
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A human in the presence of an apex predator has no advantages. Naked and alone, he is consumed. PWP one shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Animal of Prey

Daddy wasn’t here tonight. 

They’d been on the road for days, sleeping in the back of the Impala and suffering their way through diner after greasy diner as they made their way across the Heartlands. It had been a dustbowl summer, and Dean had been reduced to stripping down to his boxers and hanging his head out of the window just to catch the wind in his hair. The leather seats were agony. 

 _Fuck Sam,_ Dean had thought more than once as yet another endless mile passed under the tires. At least Bobby’s house had air conditioning and TV, if you got the antenna pointing the right way. Sam always got to spend summer lounging around Sioux Falls, while it was business as usual for Dad and Dean: sweat, gunpowder, and enough nightmares to last a lifetime. _Fuck Sam,_ Dean thought again, unsticking his legs from the leather seats and letting out a groan. _Fuck summer._

Still, life on the road made Dean appreciate the little things. The motel had been a godsend disguised as water damaged wallpaper and crusty sheets: the showers were blissfully cold. He’d soaked in the water until his skin was pink and shivering, and he felt convinced that he had at last managed to wash the last of the dusty trail from his pores. Tingling with chill, he toweled his sandy hair and glanced at his face in the mirror. The sun had turned him into a summer blond, and his freckles were the color of cinnamon on his nose. He frowned at the face, stuck his tongue out, bared his teeth, smiled - a freckled mask. 

Wrapping the towel around his waist, he sighed and opened the bathroom door. That was when he noticed that Daddy wasn’t here tonight. 

Sure, he looked like Daddy, if you didn’t know any better - but Dean had met this imposter before. The heavy eyelids flicked up and down as Dean stepped out from the bathroom and instinctively, Dean cinched the towel tighter. The broad hand beckoned, the mouth opened a fraction of an inch. On the bedside table, the amber glimmer of the whiskey seemed like a prop on a stage. Dean’s mask flickered, held. 

“Come here,” said John. 

Dean wondered how long he could stall. “Dad, it’s late. Come on, we gotta hit the road again in the morning.” 

John shifted, lifting the Jack Daniels to his mouth. “Don’t disobey your father.” He didn’t even flinch as the liquor went down. His gaze never left Dean’s. 

Sam once told Dean about the defense mechanisms of animals of prey. Some animals used camouflage, or mimicry, or speed. Some traveled in herds to confuse the predator and make it more difficult to attack. _But a human_ , Sam had said, _a human naked and alone in the presence of an apex predator, has no advantages_. A man is not fast, he does not have claws or sharp teeth. 

There is no safety in numbers for man. 

Dean faltered, a nervous heat breaking through the cold chill that still clung to his skin. “Not tonight,” he said, and was ashamed to hear the way his voice quavered. “Dad, please, not tonight.” He didn’t remember stepping back, didn’t mean to, but suddenly, the predator was on the move. 

“You wanna feel my belt on your legs, boy?” John’s hand was on his shoulder, and from this vantage point, Dean was suddenly aware of the way his father towered over him; he radiated a sense of impenetrable solidness, and the pressure of his hand was a wordless threat. 

The predator was about to make his kill. 

The bedsprings creaked as John pulled Dean down onto his lap and immediately, his hands began to rub up and down Dean’s thighs. The sound of his slow, rumbling breath beside Dean’s ear made every fiber of his being blaze with adrenaline, and it took all of his self control not to struggle against his father as the man’s hands pulled the towel open. Already, Dean could feel his father straining in his jeans.

“Daddy…” Dean whispered, his voice breaking, but was quickly silenced by a hand over his mouth. John’s lips were at his ear, his beard scratching painfully against Dean’s trembling nerves. 

“Don’t.” The command was quiet, but it was enough. 

So Dean gazed blankly at the smoke stained curtains as his father continued to caress him. Heat was building where their bare skin touched, and Dean could feel sweat starting to roll down his ribs. A hot flush crept up his throat as his father’s mouth left painfully hard kisses under his jaw. Suddenly, his hand found a tender spot between Dean’s legs, and compulsively, Dean moaned and jerked against the touch, his head falling back against his father’s shoulder. 

“Daddy,” he moaned again, despite his father’s warning, but this time, John didn’t stop him. Dean shivered as John pressed his teeth into the soft parts along his neck, and cried out wordlessly as a hand began to caress the hot, quivering underside of his thigh. The friction of fabric against his legs was quickly becoming unbearable as the thick ridge in his father’s jeans continued to grow. 

“I want you,” John growled suddenly, bucking against his son and tightening his hold on him.

Dean’s breaths were coming in gasps now. “Please,” he managed, trying to pull away. “Daddy, please don’t.” But in a flash, the world tilted, and after a struggle of limbs and fabric, Dean found himself facedown on the bed, pinned under his father’s weight. 

“Get off,” Dean cried before he could stop himself, and was instantly silenced by a blow that stunned him into a momentary daze. From above came the rustle of fabric and metal, and he let out a moan as John forced his arms across his back and cinched them together with his belt. 

“Dad, please - ” But the words were cut off by another blow and the sudden press of a thick wad of cloth being forced into his mouth. 

Absurdly, in this moment, Dean thought of that old murder mystery game he and Sam used to play: _in the bedroom, with a bottle of Jack._ He made a noise half-way between a gag and a scream, but the sound was muffled by the t-shirt in his mouth. 

“Stop crying,” John ordered. His knee dug painfully into Dean’s back as he undid the button of his jeans. He laid down beside his son and pulled him up against the curve of his body.  “A hunter doesn’t cry like a bitch.”

 _But I’m not the hunter,_ Dean thought, unable to stem the hot trickle of tears burning his cheeks. _I’m the prey._

Breathing heavily, John pulled Dean closer, one arm around his son’s neck, the other running frantically up and down his sweat-slick body. “I want you,” he repeated hungrily, touching Dean’s palpating belly. “God, Dean, I want you.” Forcing his legs apart, John began to probe between them, eliciting a string of shuddering gasps from his trembling hostage. 

“I want to fuck you,” he continued, and pressed harder into the tender flesh, forcing Dean open up to the knuckle. Even through the gag, Dean’s desperate pleas were discernible. 

They were both drenched with sweat now. Dean could feel his father’s heart pounding, but he was more concerned about the thick knot of flesh pressed against the back of his thighs. With a shudder, he took another inch of finger, curling into his father’s hold. Growling, his father’s hand tightened possessively around Dean’s throat, and and a second finger began to fight against the unwilling muscle. 

Jerking against the touch, Dean fought the urge to scream. _Think of Sammy,_ he commanded himself, but the thought of his brother in this moment was too much. He couldn’t imagine what he would feel if Sammy were to see him like this, vulnerable and broken in every way. Shuddering, he pushed the idea away, and tried instead to focus on something, anything - but there was nothing. Only the heat, and the pain, and the primal urge to fight, to escape. 

Suddenly, the fingers were gone from inside him, and Dean knew that it was time. A moment later, John was filling him, and for a few seconds, Dean could do nothing but try to breath, his throat closing around all of the air inside of him. 

“Oh yeah,” John growled beside his ear, rutting slowly into him, “there ya go.” 

Each stroke opened him wider and deeper, until Dean couldn’t take any more. John’s hips slammed against Dean with every rut, his hand pulling back on Dean’s waist. His other hand was tight against Dean’s throat, his arm pressed against his chest. 

“Take it,” John murmured as he bucked, pulling Dean’s head back until his throat was taut and trembling. His lips were like fire against Dean’s skin. 

After what seemed like an interminable amount of time, John pulled the gag from Dean’s mouth, but before Dean could make a sound, John’s hand was over his mouth again, his finger pressing past his lips. With a moan, Dean took the finger and began to suck, the taste of salt and skin heady on his tongue. Behind him, John gave a groan of pleasure and ground harder into Dean. 

“Fuck,” he hissed, pressing down onto Dean’s tongue as his son continued to suck. “Fuck yeah.” 

Suddenly, John pulled out and jerked Dean up. “Get up,” he ordered without prelude. Shaking from the sudden shift, Dean obeyed, allowing his father to half-carry him to the edge of the bed. “On your knees,” John said, and before Dean could comply, he threw Dean across the edge of the bed and forced himself back inside of him. It was all Dean could do not to scream as John knotted his hands into his son’s hair and pounded into him with stroke after brutal stroke. 

“Please!” he cried out, burying his face into the sweat-soaked sheets. “God, Dad, please!” His hands clenched and unclenched against his back as he fought against his bonds, and his legs shook uncontrollably as he struggled to remain in position. “Please stop, please, please.” 

But John ignored his son’s pleas, ramming with military precision on each stroke, until Dean was gagging with a mixture of overstimulated pleasure and pain. 

It was too much, Dean thought as he felt his father winding towards climax. His legs were threatening to collapse beneath him; every inch of his body was on fire. Just when he thought he wouldn’t be able to take it for another second, John pulled out again suddenly, releasing his grip on Dean’s hair. 

For a moment, Dean wondered if it was over, but no - John was still above him, pulling him down onto his haunches, forcing his face upwards. 

“Open your mouth,” said the voice far above him, and in a shivering daze, Dean could do nothing but obey. In an instant, John’s hand was clamped around his jaw, forcing his mouth wide, and suddenly, all of Dean’s senses were flooded with the heady, unmistakable taste of shame. Thick, white ropes spattered across his lips and face, and choked him as they rushed into his throat. He gagged and tried to pull away, but John was still jerking with the last remnants of his orgasm, and he had not yet released Dean from his grasp. 

Finally, just when it seemed as though it would never end, John’s hand fell away, and Dean collapsed onto the floor. Fighting to catch his breath, he lay trembling and dazed as John disappeared behind the bathroom door. 

He was gone for what seemed like ages, and Dean wondered vaguely if he would leave him here all night. But finally, the bathroom door opened, and after few minutes of silence, John’s feet padded over to where Dean still lay, and gently, hesitantly unbuckled the belt from around his arms. 

“Clean up,” John ordered, but his voice was softer now, just like it always was - the sobering sense of remorse, the calm after the storm. Shaking, Dean sat up, but he did not raise his eyes to look at his father. John’s legs hesitated for a moment in Dean’s line of vision, but soon they were gone, and John was in bed, and the lights were out. Getting to his feet took a few tries, but after a minute, Dean managed to teeter to the bathroom and lock the door behind him. He didn’t bother to turn on the light. 

The shower was blissfully cold, just as it was before, and Dean soaked in the water until he could no longer feel the heat on his skin, couldn’t taste the salty musk on the back of his throat. Afterwards, when he looked in the mirror, he was almost surprised to see the same freckled summer blond. He frowned, stuck his tongue out, bared his teeth: the mask was back, and he smiled, smiled, smiled… 


End file.
